


Exuus

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: One Shot, POV Second Person, Season/Series 06, think outside the box ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: You dream about her killing you over and over again. You dream about her getting her fiery revenge. Guilt's a terrible burden - isn't it, Will Jackson?





	Exuus

**Author's Note:**

> Had this idea flitting about my brain for a few days now. Wanted to crank it out before I catch my flight. :)

> _YOU WAKE UP WITH A HATCHET OVER YOUR HEAD._

Alone, in this somber house, you're a guilty soul that tosses and turns. It's not sober though you're trying to be. Goosebumps prick your flesh under the pretense of another horror narrative. Cold, clammy sweat coats your body. Your hair, short and dark as night, plasters to your skull – matted like a gaudy Caesar's cut.

Sleep doesn't come easy. You toss and turn with a fury. The grey sheets wrap around your trim waist.

Maybe you shouldn't have gone into corrections.

Maybe you shouldn't have been a social worker.

Maybe, just maybe, you should have crushed out your empathy in exchange for steroids and body building.

It's too late for that now.

The hatchet's in your toolshed, along with the shovel. Dirt clings to rusted metal. You've bolted the small den shut, sealed away the evidence until you promise to properly dispose of it.

Late into the evening, the washer runs. A hoodie whirls and twirls. Your muddy sneakers thud loudly against the clear window. It sounds like a loaded gun. Exhaustion compels you to rest.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you think about the inmate Ferguson had been enamored by: Riley and her infant son, Shayne. You did your best. God, you did.

You fall asleep with the heels of your palm digging into your eyes. You envision the Devil in teal running down a lonely road. You remember Meg and the blood on her body. You recall Doyle sobbing, falling in your grasp, just a scared girl with fucked up issues. 

But you're a fuck up, too.

It doesn't make you a bad man, you try to reason. Logic's never been your friend. Yet, you resort to brawns far less than Fletch did. It's your heart that clouded your judgment and brought you back to the start.

She had to say it.

Ferguson had to bloody well say it.

So, you've gone and buried her – you, this martyr without cause, strung up and dragged up. You're no James Dean, high on American ideals. You've never claimed to be perfect. In the back of your mind, there's the looming fear of being caught.

Of standing on the other side of the bars.

The dirt's still on your hands. You couldn't wash it all off. A terrible stain remains.

Again, you shift on the bed. The springs are taut beneath the mattress' rigid surface. Wire threatens to poke your shoulderblade. You turn onto your side.

You wonder how Vera would react – what she would say about this sin of yours. Channing's apt to rejoice, as is Stewart, but Vera cares the same as well.

What a burden for you, fucking Atlas.

Your arm drapes over your front, similar to the way you held Meg. Held Rose. They're gone now and maybe that makes you a bit cursed.

Restless thoughts plummet you into a deep, dark sleep. Your breathing steadies. Cruel and merciless, the dreams come. You remain unaware of the thump in the night. The door hinges whine, in desperate need of a proper oiling.

You dream about a needle to your throat. You dream about a hatchet over your head. You dream about the shovel coming down against your spine. You dream of the pain, the guilt, and never the retribution for a torn up man like you.

With a start, you jolt awake. Panting, you forget how to breathe. You drown on the atmosphere. You choke on the air that tastes as stale as death. You grab your neck and for a split second, you imagine that a leather hold snakes around your throat. Your fist hits the bed. Once, twice, thrice.

The stars allow for a thin stream of light to sneak into your room.

There's a figure opposite of the bed – androgynous in the pretense of the night. One leg crosses over the other. Liar's hands rest atop a poised lap. Back straight, perfect posture is maintained. The shadow ignores the dirt that stains the uniform although it's a nagging disturbance.

A razorblade grin is visible in the midst of this black veil.

Petrified, you stare.

You lock eyes with the Phoenix reborn.

Risen again.

Joan Ferguson is alive and well despite a few altercations. Somehow, she remains too bloody composed. With a slight cock of her head, she studies you as though you're a specimen on a mortuary slab. You stare and you stare. Your eyes bulge out of your skull. The vein in your neck throbs. Stunned, you find that you cannot move, frozen by her Gorgon's stare. She conquers your armchair. It's her throne now.

The red ring around her throat is a brand as potent as your guilt.

Your mouth falls open.

She smiles sweetly, her sonorous voice a mere whisper.

“Hello, Will.”

A greeting rings as the truest threat.


End file.
